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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Knickerbocker, Vol. 22, No. 2, August
1843, by Various
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
Title: The Knickerbocker, Vol. 22, No. 2, August 1843
Author: Various
Release Date: January 9, 2015 [EBook #47920]
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KNICKERBOCKER, AUGUST 1843 ***
Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
* * * * *
THE KNICKERBOCKER.
VOL. XXII. AUGUST, 1843. No. 2.
GREEK EPITAPHS AND INSCRIPTIONS.
Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori.--HORACE.
GREECE was the land of poetry. Endowed with a language, of all
others adapted to every variation of feeling, from the deepest
pathos or boldest heroism, to the lightest mirth, and gifted with
the most exquisite sensibility to all the charms of poetry, it
is not surprising that her inhabitants carried it to a height
beyond any thing that the world has seen, before or since. It was
intermingled with their daily life, it formed a portion of their
very being, and constituted the chief source of their highest
enjoyment. All Athens rushed daily to the theatre, to exult or weep
as the genius of the poet directed them; and the people who could
fine their greatest tragedian for harrowing their feelings beyond
endurance, must have been differently formed from those of the
present day. The well-known saying of old Fletcher of Saltoun, is
not now true; but we can readily believe it, with such a race, when
songs, like the glorious ode of Callistratus,
Εν μυρτω κλαδι το ξιφος φορησω. κ. τ. λ.
were daily sung, while the lyre and myrtle-branch passed from hand
to hand.
With the Greeks, poetry seemed to enter into the character of every
man. It was cultivated by the annual contests between its highest
professors; and the honor which awaited the victor was an inducement
to exertion of the noblest kind. It was the surest road to the favor
and patronage of the great. Not the cold and chilling assistance
which the Medici held out to the genius of their land, and which
seemed to calculate the least expense with which the credit of a
protector of learning could be bought, but the ready and regal
munificence of a man who regards the gifts of genius as the highest
with which a mortal can be favored. He who could enchant such a
people need take no care for the future. Kings disputed for the
honor of his presence, and states were overjoyed to support him. Let
not the example of Homer be brought to controvert this. He lived
long before poetry thus became the delight of the people; and, after
all, to say that he 'begged his bread' is but a bold poetic license.
Beside, the eagerness with which the 'Seven Cities' disputed for the
Mœonian, show what would have been his fate had he not 'fallen on
evil days.' In after ages he was honored, and ranked all but with
the gods.
In the same mood, the highest reward, the fullest honor, that could
be given to the rescuer of his country was to have his name inserted
in the inscription that marked the scene of his victories.[A] In
this spirit, no national event took place, no great battle was won,
no instance of heroic self-devotion occurred, that the genius of
the highest poets was not called upon to commemorate it in some
noble or pathetic inscription, which, in after ages, calls forth
as much admiration as the deed which originated it. The glorious
death of the three-hundred takes place at Thermopylæ; the Athenians
propose a contest for the honor of placing an inscription to mark
the spot; and crowds are gathered to adjudge the prize; for, in
those days, crowds were judges. Among the competitors are Æschylus
and Simonides; and, amid the roar of that immense multitude, the
victor-palm is awarded to Simonides, for two lines which will live
to the end of time:
Ω ξειν' αγγειλον Λακεδαιμονιοις ὁτι τηδε
Κειμεθα, τοις κεινων ῥημασι πειθομενοι.
[A] See Plutarch, Vit. Cimon.
Their noble simplicity is almost untranslatable, yet we will attempt
it:
Ye who see this! to Lacedemon tell
Here, honoring her sacred laws, we fell!
Or, more literally:
Stranger! tell Sparta that one common grave
Here holds our dust, who kept the laws she gave!
The few of these majestic inscriptions which yet remain to us, all
bear the same imprint of lofty poetic feeling. Expressed with the
utmost simplicity, they would seem bald, were it not for the skill
of the poet, and the glorious associations that they call up around
us.
The subject of Thermopylæ appears to have been a favorite with
Simonides. Here is another which breathes the same spirit:
Ει το καλως θνησκειν αρετης μερος εστι μεγιστον,
Ἡμιν εκ παντων τουτ' απενειμε Τυχη·
Ἑλλαδι γαρ σπευδοντες ελευθεριαν περιθειναι
Κειμεθ' αγηραντω χρωμενοι ευλογιη.
We have endeavored to render it into the English as literally as
possible:
If to die well be Virtue's highest bliss,
To us, o'er all, the Fates have given this,
We fell that Greece might liberty obtain,
And thus undying glory do we gain!
And yet another, a glorious eulogy:
Των εν Θερμοπυλαις θανοντων. κ. τ. λ.
Oh! sacred be the memory of the brave,
Who in Thermopylæ's deep bosom lie,
Their country's honor! Let each hero's grave
Become an altar for the gods on high.
Their fittest praise is their unconquered death!
Not even Time's rude hand and wasting breath,
From those dear tombs, can snatch one wreath away
Which Greece delights o'er heroes still to lay.
And here, again, is another, from the same, beautiful in its
simplicity, on the heroes who fell in one of Greece's glorious
victories; which one is not known:
Ασβεστον κλεος ὁιδε φιλη περι πατριδι θεντες
Κυανεον θανατου αμφεβαλοντο νεφος.
Ουδε τεθνασι θανοντες, επει σφ' αρετη καθυπερθεν
Κυδαινους' αναγει δωματος εξ Αιδεω.
Or thus:
Undying fame for their loved native land
They won, then sank beneath Death's iron hand;
But yet, though fallen, they ne'er can die, for lo!
Glory recalls them from the shades below.
And, as it was with these monuments of national glory, so was
it with the bounties of nature, the lesser tokens of love and
affection, and the humble demonstrations of piety. No fountain
leaped forth from the way-side to greet and refresh the weary
traveller; no lone tomb was raised among its grove of gloomy
cypresses, that some Meleager, some Anyte was not at hand to adorn
it with a few lines, simple indeed, but beautiful and appropriate,
and which still live, long after the names of those who called them
forth have been forgotten. Then every rustic image, erected by the
peasants in honor of some sylvan deity, was sure to have some little
inscription, graceful, and conceived in the happiest mood. Thus,
in the Greek Anthology, there are preserved nearly eight hundred
epitaphs, most of them touching from their natural and exquisite
simplicity. They generally indicate deep and quiet feeling, rarely
indulging in the little epigrammatic points that so mar the effect
of almost all modern epitaphs. What can be more beautiful than
Meleager's Lament over the grave of Heliodora?
Δακρυα σοι και νερθε δια χθονος, Ἡλιοδωρα,
Δωρουμαι, στοργας λειψανον εις Αιδαν,
Δακρυα δυσδακρυτα· πολυκλαυτω δ' επι τυμβω
Σπενδω ναμα ποθων, μναμα φιλοφροσυνας.
Οικτρα γαρ, οικτρα φιλαν σε και εν φθιμενοις Μελεαγρος
Αιαζω, κενεαν εις Αχεροντα χαριν.
Αι, Αι, που το ποθεινον εμοι θαλος; ἁρπασεν Αιδας,
Ἁρπασεν· ακμαιον δ' ανθος εφυρε κονις.
Αλλα σε γουνουμαι, γα παντροφε, ταν πανοδυρτον
Ηρεμα σοις κολποις, ματερ, εναγκαλισαι.
This has little of the charming simplicity which usually marks these
beautiful poems, but it is an exquisite and touching lament. We have
endeavored to render it into English, although we fear
'That every touch which wooed its stay,
Hath brushed a thousand charms away.'
I give, O Heliodora! tears to thee,
Ah, bitter tears! the relics of a love
Unchanged by Death. And, o'er thy sepulchre,
I pour this passionate flood, which shows my love
Still unabated. But, 'tis vain! 'tis vain!
Since thou, adored one! art among the dead,
A boon by them unprized. Ah! lovely flower,
Now seized by Death, I view thy silken leaves
All trampled in the dust. Ah! then to thee,
O friendly Earth! I pray, that to thy bosom
Thou should'st receive her with maternal care!
And the following shows the hand of genius, guided by love. The name
of its author is unfortunately unknown.
Ουκ εθανες, Πρωτη. κ. τ. λ.
Proté! thou art not dead. Thou hast but gone
To dwell in some far happier land than ours:
Perchance thou hast the blessed islands won,
Where Spring eternal reigns, adorned with flowers.
Or, in the Elysian Fields, thy joyous path
Is strown with opening blossoms; far above
All earthly ills, thou feelest not winter's wrath,
Nor summer's heat, nor care, nor hopeless love.
In blest tranquillity, thy moments fly,
Illumed by beams from Heaven's own cloudless sky.
Both of these are almost perfect, each in its own way. One
contemplates the survivor, and paints his grief at the loss of an
adored object; the other, in a more resigned mood, observes the
felicity which that object should experience in the land of spirits.
Both are somewhat wanting in the tender simplicity which is the
usual charm and characteristic of the Greek epitaph. But properly
speaking, they are not epitaphs; they are addresses to the dead. We
will give a few specimens of the inscription over the dead in its
true form.
Here is a beautiful one, by Lucian, on a child:
Παιδα με πενταετηρον, ακηδεα θυμον εχοντα,
Νηλειης Αιδης ἡρπασε, καλλιμαχον.
Αλλα με μη κλαιοις· και γαρ βιοτοιο μετεσχον
Παυρον, και παυρων των βιοτοιο κακων.
While yet a tender child, the hand of Death
Deprived me, young Callimachus, of breath.
Oh! mourn me not! my years were few, and I
Saw little of Life's care and misery.
This one, by Erinna the Lesbian, was inscribed on the tomb of a
bride who died on the marriage night.
Σταλαι και σειρηνες εμαι. κ. τ. λ.
Ye pillars! satued syrens! and thou urn!
Sad relics, that hold these my cold remains,
Say to each traveller who may hither turn
His footsteps, whether native of these plains,
Or stranger, that within this tomb there lie
The ashes of a bride; and also say
My name was Lyde, of a lineage high,
And sad Erinna graved this o'er my clay.
Callimachus, too, has given us a noble one in a single distich:
Τηδε Σαων ὁ Δικωνος Ακανθιος ἱερον ὑπνον
Κοιμαται. θνασκειν μη λεγε τους αγαθους.
Here Saon the Acanthian _slumbering_ lies;
Oh! say not that a virtuous man e'er _dies_!
And here is an exquisite little one by Tymneus, on an Egyptian who
died in Crete:
Μησοι τουτο, Φιλαινι. κ. τ. λ.
Grieve not, dear lost one! that thou find'st a grave
In Crete, far from thy native Nile's dark wave.
Alas! hell's gloomy portals open wide
To all who seek them, upon every side.
This touching one, by Callimachus, is for the cenotaph of a friend
who was shipwrecked:
Ωφελε μηδ' εγενοντο. κ. τ. λ.
I would that swift-winged ships had ne'er been made to cleave
the billow.
O Sopolis! we should not then deplore thy watery pillow:
Thou liest 'neath the heaving waves, and of thee naught we claim
Save this poor, empty sepulchre, and thy beloved name.
When a man died at sea, and his corpse was not recovered, to
receive the usual funeral honors, he was refused admittance into
Charon's boat, unless his friends erected a cenotaph and performed
the accustomed rites over it. The above appears to have been an
inscription designed for such an occasion.
Simonides does not forget his fire in commemorating the exploits of
a friend who fell in one of the battles against the Persians:
ON MEGISTIAS, THE SOOTHSAYER.
Μναμα τοδε κλεινοιο. κ. τ. λ.
Within this tomb is famed Megistias laid.
He bravely fell beneath the Persian's blade,
Where old Sperchius rolls his waters clear.
Although his death was known unto the seer,
To leave his Spartan chief he would not deign,
But, bravely fighting, 'mid the foe was slain.
The Greeks delighted to frame epitaphs for their most distinguished
men, especially for their poets. Those in honor of Homer are almost
innumerable. Anacreon has more than a dozen, and other favorites in
proportion. We will give a specimen of these compositions in the
following beautiful lines by Simmias the Theban, on Sophocles:
Ηρεμ' ὑπερ τυμβοιο Σοφοκλεος, ηρεμα, κισσε,
Ἑρπυζοις, χλοερους εκπροχεων πλοκαμους,
Και πεταλον παντη θαλλοι ῥοδου, ἡ τε φιλορρωξ
Αμπελος, ὑγρα περιξ κληματα χευαμενη,
Ἑινεκεν ευμαθιης πινυτοφρονος, ἡν ὁ μελιχρος
Ησκησεν, Μουσων αμμιγα και Χαριτων.
O verdant ivy! round the honored tomb
Of Sophocles, thy branches gently twine;
There let the rose expand her vernal bloom
Amid the clasping tendrils of the vine;
For he, with skill unrivalled, struck the lyre,
Amid the Graces, and the Aonian choir.
Not less beautiful were the inscriptions affixed to fountains,
rustic statues, baths, and the hundred other little evidences of
cultivated taste so frequent in Greece. With such a people, it must
have afforded double pleasure to a wearied traveller on approaching
a fountain, sparkling in its basin of rocks, to find over it an
invitation to repose from some one of the first epigrammatists of
antiquity; as, for instance, this one of Anyte:
Ξειν', ὑπο ταν πετραν τετρυμενα γυι' αναπαυσον·
Ἁδυ τοι εν χλωροις πνευμα θροει πεταλοις.
Πιδακα τ' εκ παγας ψυχρον πιε· δη γαρ ὁδιταις
Αμπαυμ' εν θερμω καυματι τουτο φιλον.
Weary stranger, sink to rest,
'Neath this rock's o'erhanging crest.
Where the trees their branches fling
Breezes soft are whispering.
Freely drink these waters cold,
Welling from yon fountain old.
While the sun thus fiery glows,
Travellers here should seek repose.
These compositions being so limited as to their subject, bear of
course much similarity to each other. We will, however, give two or
three specimens in as different styles as we can select.
Here is one by Leonidas of Tarentum, on a brook, too much frequented
by the flocks to be acceptable to the traveller:
Μη συ γ' επ' οιονομοιο περιπλεον ιλυος ὡδε
Τουτο χαραδραιης θερμον, ὁδιτα', πιης·
Αλλα μολων μαλα τυτθον ὑπερ δαμαληβοτον ακραν,
Κεισε γε παρ' κεινα ποιμενια πιτυι,
Ἑυρησεις κελαρυζον ευκρηνου δια πετρης
Ναμα, Βορειαιης ψυχροτερον νιφαδος.
O, traveller! taste not of this muddy fount,
In which the weary flock and herds recline,
For farther on, upon yon verdant mount,
And 'neath the branches of a lofty pine,
From out a rock a sparkling fountain flows
With waters colder than the Northern snows.
And, again, here are a few lines, by the fair Anyte, simple indeed,
but graceful and pleasing:
Ἱζευ ἁπας ὑπο τασδε δαφνας. κ. τ. λ.
Recline beneath this laurel's verdure sweet,
And taste the waters of this crystal spring;
Here rest thy limbs, unnerved by summer's heat,
Refreshed, the while, by zephyr's whispering.
And yet another, by an author whose name has been forgotten:
Ερχεο και κατ εμαν. κ. τ. λ.
Come, wearied traveller, here recline
Beneath this dark o'erarching pine,
Whose waving sprays, with sighing sweet,
Joy the passing winds to greet.
List to the soft and silvery sound,
My falling waters scatter round.
Its murmur, low reëchoing,
Repose to thee will quickly bring.
The whole has an air of quiet yet musical repose that makes us
almost fancy we hear the plashing of the falling waters.
There is also a pretty little inscription, somewhat Anacreontic, by
Marianus the Scholiast, on a warm spring.
Ταδ' ὑπο τας ρλατανους. κ. τ. λ.
Once Love within these shades was sleeping,
And gave his torch to the Naïads' keeping.
'Aha!' cried they, 'we'll quench its glow
Within our fountain's icy flow,
And, when its cruel fires cease,
The heart of man shall beat in peace.'
They plunged it in, but, all untamed,
The wondrous torch still brightly flamed,
And now these lovely nymphs must pour
A heated spring to yonder shore.
And here, in the compass of four lines, has Paul the Silentiary
given a better eulogy to his sea-side garden than could be
comprehended in a whole volume of modern descriptive poetry. He
allows the imagination to wander at will among objects of its own
creating, and to depict for itself the scene which he would not
describe:
Ενθαδ' εριδμαινουσι, τινος πλεον επλετο χωρος,
Νυμφαι, Νηιαδες, Νηρεις, Αδρυαδες·
Ταις δε θεμιστευει μεσατη Χαρις, ουδε δικαζειν
Οιδεν, επει ξυνιν τερψιν ὁ χωρος εχει.
Here Dryads, Nymphs, and Nereids contend,
Which, to this spot, its chief attraction lend;
Beauty, in vain, their difference would accord,
Each to the scene such equal charms afford.
We will now give an inscription of Theocritus, in dedicating an
humble rustic altar to Apollo:
Τα δροσοεντα τα ῥοδα. κ. τ. λ.
This bushy thyme and dewy roses
Are sacred to the immortal maids
Who dwell where Hippocrene discloses
Her fount, 'mid Heliconian shades.
But, Pythian Apollo! thou
Hast laurel with its dark green leaves,
For Delphi's rock, to grace thy brow,
Of it, to thee, a tribute gives.
Then on this altar, will I lay
A tender kid, with budding horns,
Who crops the lowest waving spray,
Which yonder lofty pine adorns.
And here are a few simple and pretty lines, inscribed by Anyte on a
statue of Venus by the sea-shore:
Κυπριδος ὁυτος ὁ χωρος. κ. τ. λ.
This spot is Aphrodite's, and around
The gentle waves subdue their whitening crests,
Approaching it from ocean's farthest bound
To give a friendly welcome to the guests
Who tempt their bosom: while the neighboring sea
Gazes upon that statue reverently.
When the Greeks or Romans laid aside their arms, they would
frequently dedicate them to some deity, and suspend them in his
temple, with an appropriate inscription. Thus, Horace:
Nunc arma defunctumque bello
Barbiton hic paries habebit
Lævum marinæ qui veneris latus
Custodit.
And when any offering of this kind was made to one of the
innumerable gods of the Greeks, it appears to have been accompanied
by a few dedicatory lines. There is, of course, great sameness in
such compositions, and, in fact, they generally consist merely of an
enumeration of the articles offered, and the name of the devotee,
but we will select two or three on different subjects.
Here is one, by Simonides, on a spear dedicated to Jupiter:
Ὁυτω τοι, μελια ταναα, ποτι κιονα μακρον
Ἡσω, Πανομφαιω Ζηνι μενους' ἱερα·
Ηδη γαρ χαλκος τε γερων, αυτη τε τετρυσαι
Πυκνα κραδαινομενα δηιω εν Πολεμω.
Or thus,
This trusty ashen spear we 'll hang above;
'Tis sacred now to Panomphœan Jove.
The arm is old which once its terrors tossed,
And sent it quivering through the serried host.
The following inscription is said to be by Plato. It was affixed to
a mirror which the celebrated Laïs, in her old age, dedicated to
Venus:
Ἡ σοβαρον γελασασα. κ. τ. λ.
I, Laïs, who, in Beauty's chain,
Held Greece a captive, and for whom
So many lovers sighed in vain,
Enchanted by my youthful bloom;
Subdued by age, this mirror true,
Cythera! thus I give to thee;
For what I _am_ I will not view.
And what I _was_, I ne'er can be.
When a Grecian maiden arrived at womanhood, it was usual for her
to dedicate some toy of her childhood to Venus, in token of her
having abandoned her youthful occupations and amusements. Here is an
inscription, by Callimachus, designed for an occasion of this kind.
It is both graceful and elegant, yet is deficient in the simplicity
which is the usual charm of these compositions among the Greeks. It
is addressed to Venus Zephyritis:
Κογχος εγω Ζεφυριτι. κ. τ. λ.
O Zephyritis! I am but a shell,
First gift of Selenæa unto thee.
Her nautilus, who once could sail so well
O'er the unquiet bosom of the sea.
Then, if 't were ploughed by gentle, favoring gales,
On my own ropes I spread my mimic sails,
And, if 't were calm, I used my feet as oars
And swiftly rowed--from which I bear my name.
But I was cast upon the sandy shores
Of fair lülis, and from there I came,
To be a graceful ornament to thee,
Here in thy fane, O fair Arsinoë!
Now sad Alcyone will lay no more,
Within her ocean-nest her eggs for me,
For I am lifeless. Queen of this bright shore
Let Clinias's daughter hence receive from thee
Thy choicest gifts. She dwells beyond the main
Where Smyrna towers o'er th' Æolian plain.
It would scarcely be fair to conclude this little notice of some of
the smaller gems of Greek poetry, without glancing at those intended
to be satirical or witty. Of these we can find but few remaining,
and what are thus preserved cannot induce us to regret much the loss
of those which have been destroyed. They do not seem to show a taste
as refined and delicate as is exhibited by the other productions of
the Grecian muse, and, indeed, are usually very poor. Two or three
specimens will suffice.
Doctors and lawyers, as at present, were favorite butts for the
shafts of the epigrammatists. The following mock-epitaph is intended
as a cut at the former. The author is unknown:
Ουτ' εκλυσεν Φειδων. κ. τ. λ.
'Twas not with drugs that Phidon killed me;
He came not even near my side:
But, while raging fevers thrilled me,
I chanced to _think_ of him--and died!
And here is an epitaph,
'A precious, tender-hearted scroll
Of pure Simonides,'
intended, no doubt, for the grave of an enemy:
Πολλα φαγων, και πολλα πιων. κ. τ. λ
Here lies Timocreon, the Rhodian; he
Loved slander, drunkenness, and gluttony.
This is certainly pithy.
* * * * *
Stepmothers, in those days, would seem to have been just as bad as
at present, when they have become a very proverb. Here is a kind of
epitaph by Callimachus, containing a hit at them which certainly has
no very great merit:
Στηλην μητρυιης. κ. τ. λ.
On his step-mother's tomb, this youth piously placed
Some flowers, that it might be properly graced.
For he thought, as this life had abandoned her view,
That her vices, no doubt, had abandoned her too.
But, while he was thus standing close to the tomb,
It fell, and it crushed him, Oh! terrible doom!
Then youths! let this warning sink deep in your breasts,
Shun each step-mother, e'en when in Oreus she rests.
These are ample, as specimens of Grecian wit, which, as here
exhibited, is certainly of no very refined or exalted description.
In taking a general and comprehensive glance over Greek Epitaphs
and Inscriptions, we see that they are usually characterized by
deep feeling, expressed concisely, and with the utmost simplicity.
We rarely find any catches, any evident striving after effect,
and, in consequence, to an ear not accustomed to them, they may
frequently seem meagre, and even bald. But, by studying them, a
meaning seems to grow out of the very words; and the more that we
examine them, and the oftener that we read them, the more we find
them expressive of 'thoughts that lie too deep for words,' thoughts
which can be expressed but darkly, and which, concealed in this garb
of simplicity, must be passed over by those who are not content to
pause and ponder. Whether the pleasure derived from this be worth
the labor that must be spent over them, even though it be a labor of
love, is a question which each must answer for himself, according to
his own tastes. If they lead him to it, he will have discovered an
almost inexhaustible source of pure and elevated gratification; if
not
----'frustra laborum
Ingratum trahit.'
_Philadelphia, June, 1843._
HENRY C. LEA.
NEW-ENGLAND.
I.
LAND of the Pilgrim-Rock! how broad thy streams,
Thy hills how peopled with the brave and free!
With glorious sights thy fruitful valley teems,
And lavish Nature pours her gifts on thee;
On every hand the smile of Beauty beams,
And rich profusion spreads from lake to sea!
Imperial land! from out thy mountain sides
Flow the pure streams of ever-living tides!
II.
Fair are thy daughters, as thy skies are fair,
Proud are thy sons, as proud thy mountains rise,
And as the eagle loves the clear blue air,
The soul of Freedom hovers 'neath thy skies!
How strong in heart thy patriot-sires were!
And, oh, how brave to win war's golden prize!
To thee, fair land! our souls in love shall turn,
And in our altar-fires thy heroes' deeds shall burn.
III.
Birth-land of Freedom! from thy mountain-height,
From thy deep vales and forests fair and wide,
Along thy sounding shores where ocean's might
Expends itself in tide's returning tide,
Rising, sublime, beyond the tempest's flight,
The immortal sounds of Liberty abide!
And, oh! how far along from shore to shore
They meet and mingle with the sea's loud roar!
IV.
Oh! there are hearts that turn in pride to thee,
Thou glorious land of blossom and of shower!
Gathering sweet incense from each blooming tree,
And tears of balm and freshness from each flower;
And at thy altars gloriously and free
The chainless spirit worships, hour by hour!
While round thee all our holiest thoughts entwine;
The fragrance of the heart, dear land! is thine.
V.
Radiant with rosy light are thy blue skies,
Fair Italy! thou land of love and song!
And thou, bright Isle of Erin! whence arise
The avenging spirits of a nation's wrong,
Thou too art fair, and worshipped in the eyes
Of men and nations to whom tears belong;
But yet, oh! yet we feel, blest land and free,
One pulse more strongly beating, still for thee!
VI.
Autumn hath crowned thee glorious, radiant clime!
Autumn, the holiest season to the heart,
Making thy sunsets with all hues sublime,
The faultless picture of the Eternal art!
To love thee less, New-England! 'twere a crime,
More could we not, ourselves of thee a part;
Tears are thine offering; prayers unceasing be
Poured from the heart Imperial Land! for thee.
_New-York, July 1, 1843_
E. B. G.
'MENS CONSCIA RECTI.'
A CHRONICLE OF IDLEBERG.
NICHOLAS PELT, the worthy pedagogue, whose history was suspended
in the July number of his namesake, the 'Old KNICK.,' was not long
in establishing for himself a fair fame in all the region round
about Idleberg; nor was his attention exclusively devoted to the
monotonous duties of his profession. While he taught the young idea
'how to shoot,' a new and absorbing passion had taken deep root in
his own heart, and was now flourishing luxuriantly in the genial
soil. His fortunes had brought him to Idleberg, and thrown in his
path the lovely image of Ellen Van Dyke; and what poor mortal,
Yankee though he be, could resist her thousand fascinations? Every
day, at home, in the midst of her domestic duties and her ten
petticoats, she was beautiful enough, in all conscience; but when
on frequent occasions she braided her hair, and pinched her cheeks
for a bloom, and clasped around her neck that enchanting dove of jet
and gold, poor Nicholas looked and sighed, and sighed and looked, as
though his very existence depended on her smile.
Could you have witnessed the eccentric movements of the fair Ellen
and the sage Nicholas, you might have guessed the nature of their
mutual feelings. How he stood by while she milked, to keep the cow
from kicking, and how the cow _did_ kick, notwithstanding; how
he led the way to church, and how she followed on behind; such
smiling and blushing when they met thrice a day at table; such an
agitation of nerves whenever he clasped that small hand in his
own, that seemed just made for it; these were enough to show that
the schoolmaster's sojourn in the village was fraught with deep
interest to at least two persons more than the striplings who were
thriving on his instructions. Then when the school would be drawing
to a close, and the evening sun was growing drowsy together with
master and pupil, you might have seen the sage pedagogue forget
his official dignity so far as to smile and nod repeatedly at some
object over the way, which was no other than the cobbler's daughter,
who always happened just at that time to be taking the air from her
little gable-end window, and returned Nicholas's amorous glances
with such unequivocal symptoms of delight, as should have made any
lover's heart, if not his feet, dance for very joy.
But how fared the suit of Hans Keiser? Where were his organs of
sight and hearing while all Idleberg was gossiping about the amours
of Nicholas and Ellen? Hans seemed to possess the happy faculty of
contemplating, with the utmost indifference, spectacles of youth
and beauty, that would have driven many men to acts of desperation;
and but for the constant efforts of his father to remind him that
Ellen Van Dyke was living in constant expectation of seeing him
at her feet, pleading his cause with all the eloquence of a Dutch
lover, Hans would have quite forgotten the obligations of his
promise to Caleb Van Dyke. Stimulated at length by his father's
reiterated appeals and an extra tankard of beer, Hans one evening
about sunset suddenly plucked up the requisite courage, and after
arraying himself in the most glaring habiliments of his wardrobe,
started out on his pilgrimage of love. Never was lover so tricked
out with all the fascinations of dress, as was the young Dutchman
on that eventful evening. As he surveyed his enormous shoe-buckles,
glittering with the lustre of several hours' polish; his numerous
suits of breeches; his gaudy waistcoat and the broad-skirted garment
which completed his outer man; his imagination was agreeably
entertained with visions of bleeding arrows and broken hearts,
lighted halls, wedding cake, and honey-moons, all mingled in one
wild, brilliant, and enchanting panorama. Nor did this imaginary
prospect fade from his mental vision until he reached the scene
of action, and contemplated the reality with a fast breath and a
palpitating heart. Never was sanguine lover so non-plussed. The
first objects he saw at the cobbler's, were the forms of Nicholas
and Ellen sitting very close together and whispering in great
apparent delight. Cut short on the threshold of his adventure,
nipped in the very bud of his affections, Hans stumbled and
stammered, and could scarcely gain sufficient composure to bid the
company good evening, until he was reassured by Caleb, who, guessing
the object of his errand, offered him a stool and bade him be seated.
How many wild, bewildering thoughts scampered through poor Hans's
brain, like rats in a garret, while he sat there in silent
astonishment, listening to the suppressed whispers of the loving
pair! How heartily did he long to be away from such a place; and
how often did he think of his favorite idea of going down the
river on a flat-boat, or of his dog and gun, or rod and line, and
some quiet place in the woods or along the creeks, where woman's
image had never intruded to throw him in the shade of even a
Yankee schoolmaster! He would rather be a bar-keeper to retail
beer by the tankard, or an ostler to be be-Bob'd or be-Bill'd by
every traveller, than a lover, sitting up in fine clothes and a
straight-jacket, to win the favor of any woman under the sun, the
fair Ellen not excepted.
Such a state of things had never entered into Hans's calculations,
and he was consequently unprepared for the emergency. Encouraged
as he had been to hope that every preliminary arrangement had been
made by old Caleb; that at the mere mention of the subject the
lovely girl would fly to his embrace; that the wedding would come
off the next week, and after that every thing would go on in the
same easy, old-fashioned way, as though nothing had happened--Hans
found the cold reality inexpressibly chilling, and though neither
a poet nor philosopher, began to think of certain objects, such as
stars and bubbles, which greater men than he had often tried in
vain to grasp. For the first time in all his life Hans was growing
sentimental--nay, desperate; and while he was wishing that somebody
would call in and knock the Yankee down and then strangle him, the
object of his ire arose, and after a graceful bow to Hans, opened a
door in the wall, and retired. At this the young Dutchman breathed
somewhat more freely, but still as if laboring under great tightness
of jacket, when old Caleb addressed him, inquiring what disposition
he had made of his voice.
Hans's only reply was a sudden start as if from the sting of an
adder, accompanied by a series of awkward gestures, during which his
face grew crimson with embarrassment.
'You are not frightened at Mr. Pelt, I hope, Hans?' continued Caleb.
'Yes--no,' said Hans; 'that is--I----'
'For my part,' interposed Ellen, tossing a curl pettishly from her
forehead, 'I think Mr. Pelt a very handsome, clever young man, and
not an object to frighten boobies;' and with a single bound she
stood at the door of her chamber, and disappeared, before Hans or
her father could frame a reply.
'Never mind that, my boy,' said Caleb; 'that's the best sign in the
world. Cut and come again, Hans!'
'I tell you what, old fellow,' said Hans, rising and opening the
street-door; 'you've got this child into a tarnation scrape this
time; but if you ever catch me in these diggings again, I'll be
darned!'
'Hans! Hans! you are a fool. Good night!' And the amiable youth
departed, and in five minutes had doffed his finery, and was fast
drowning his sorrows in the flowing bowl.
Scarcely had he gone, leaving Caleb ruminating on a proper scold to
be administered to Ellen the next morning, when a step was heard in
the school-master's chamber, and that worthy made his appearance
before the cobbler, bearing a great board on his shoulder. Caleb
stared for some time at the quaint characters inscribed thereon. His
eyes had for the first time that evening been opened to the growing
intimacy between his daughter and Nicholas; and he was disposed to
consider the invention as little else than a 'Yankee notion.'
'And what do you call that?' he asked, gruffly.
'My dear Sir,' said Mr. Pelt, 'this is nothing more than a
sign-board. It is something new in town, and I think it will attract
attention, and may do you some service.' Then bringing the lamp to
bear on the board, he displayed to Caleb various devices, inscribed
on its surface, of boots and shoes of all sizes and fashions, the
whole illustrated with the words:
+--------------------+
| Caleb Van Dyke. |
| |
|MENS CONSCIA RECTI. |
+--------------------+
'And what is it for?' asked Caleb, trying in vain to interpret the
cabalistic words.
'It is intended, Mr. Van Dyke, to surmount your front door, to
notify the public that you are a good cobbler and an honest man;
that's all.'
'Do you mean to say, Sir, that you expect Caleb Van Dyke, after
living fifty years without any such bauble, to stick such a timber
as that over his door, to be laughed at for his pains? Why, what
would Karl Keiser say?--that old Caleb is turning Yankee in his old
age. Why, Sir, the town would burst its sides with laughter, and the
boys would throw all kinds of rocks and brickbats at it, and the
windows too. No, Sir!'
'Will you _try_ it, my good friend,' said Nicholas, 'if it is but
for a single week? And if it does not increase your business, you
may set me down for a Yankee tinker, beside expecting me to do all
the fighting necessary to sustain the dignity of the establishment.'
And the result was, after a long and animated discussion, that
Caleb consented that Nicholas might nail up the board that very
night, that the town might be surprised the next morning with the
suddenness of the apparition; for such it would be considered, as it
was the only specimen of a sign-board in the village, if we except
the yellow sky and blue stars of Karl Keiser. Caleb then retired to
rest to be visited by curious dreams about sign-boards in general;
and Nicholas could scarcely sleep at all, for the busy scenes which
he imagined were already advancing in the cobbler's shop, the
legitimate result of this invention of his skill.
Early next morning Caleb protruded his uncombed head from the
window, and, lo! all Idleberg seemed to be gathered at his door. His
first thought was that a mob of his fellow-citizens had assembled
there for some nefarious purpose, but he was speedily reässured
at seeing Nicholas Pelt standing in the midst of the crowd, and
expounding the mysteries of the sign-board to the great delight of
his astonished audience. Men, women, and children had gathered there
from all parts of the town, with as much intensity of curiosity as
if Caleb had caught a live elephant, and was exhibiting it _gratis_.
There were men without their hats, and women without their bonnets,
and children with little else than bountiful nature had given them.
The shop-keeper was there with his yard-stick, and the smith with
his sledge-hammer; and the little French tailor was there with his
Sacre Dieu's and his red-hot goose, which he flourished to the
infinite terror of the by-standers. But the principal figure in this
motley group was no less a personage than Jonas Jones, the rival
cobbler. Mr. Jones had of late grown too large for his trowsers.
His prosperity had been too great for his little soul. He had cut
the bench in person, leaving the drudgery of the business to the
Company. By the aid of the village tailor he had become quite
an exquisite, wore white kid gloves, and occasionally sported a
Spanish cigar. There he was promenading before the door, with an
ivory-headed cane, and an ogling-glass lifted to his eye; and every
few seconds he condescended to inform the crowd that 'he was from
Bosting, and the people were a set of demd fules to be making such a
racket about a cobbler's sign.'
While curiosity was at the highest pitch, the uproar was increased
by the sudden appearance of Hans Keiser, who came swaggering and
blustering into the group, elbowing his way along until he reached
the vicinity of the school-master. He who had been so diffident
in the presence of the gentler sex, was now as bold as any lion
need be among men. Smarting with the recollection of his recent
discomfiture, he commenced addressing the assembly in a very
rude, uncouth style, denouncing the sign as a Yankee contrivance,
insinuating that the inventor was no better than he should be, and
exhorting the good citizens of Idleberg to tear down the bauble as
the only means of securing their lives and property from the occult
witchcraft which he professed to believe lay at the bottom of it.
Caleb Van Dyke listened to this harangue with great attention,
for it presented the subject in a new light by appealing to his
hereditary superstitions; and it is not improbable that he would
have suffered Hans to proceed in his meditated outrage, but for the
intervention of Nicholas Pelt. Already had the sturdy young Dutchman
climbed to the board and made an effort to wrench it away, when he
was arrested by the stern voice of Nicholas, commanding him, as he
valued his life, to desist.
Hans threw at him a look of defiance, and informed him that if
he had the requisite physical strength, he might remove him;
otherwise, he should remain where he was until he had torn away
the board, or chose to come down of his own free will and accord.
This announcement was received by the crowd with loud bravos,
which however were immediately silenced when the school-master
deliberately approached Hans, and grasping his leg, hurled him to
the ground. Amid the flight of women and children and Mr. Jonas
Jones, who declared that in consequence of being near-sighted he
could see better from a distance, Hans scrambled to his feet, and
aimed a blow at Nicholas that might have felled a stouter man, but
for the skill with which he parried and returned it with interest.
With the generous aid of the by-standers, who were ripe for a
frolic, and expressed their anxiety on the subject by cries of
'Bravo!' 'Go it, Red-jacket!' 'Hurrah for Old Nick!' the combatants
were on the point of getting into a regular pitched battle, with the
usual adornments of bruised eyes and bleeding noses, when Caleb Van
Dyke, who had just succeeded in putting on his ten breeches, rushed
between them, and commanded them to desist. Another pacificator,
whose presence operated equally on both parties, was the fair
Ellen, who, having caught a glimpse of the fray from her window,
and entertaining an indefinite idea in the general confusion that
her father was on the point of being carried away by a press-gang,
rushed into the street before completing her toilet, and ran to
her father's side in all the beauty of her blooming cheeks and
flowing ringlets, to the admiration of the company in general, and
particularly of Mr. Jonas Jones, who, perched in safety on a barrel
hard by, reviewed the subsiding conflict, lifted his ogling-glass,
and beating his breast violently with his right hand in the region
of his stomach, exclaimed, 'My heart! my eyes! what a demd foine
ge-irl!'
Mean time another conspicuous object hove into sight, in the
portly person of Karl Keiser, who came ambling and waddling along,
supported by a gigantic hickory stick, to ascertain the occasion of
the unusual hubbub before the door of his friend the cobbler. The
first reply to his many inquiries revealed to him the active part
his son had taken in the fray. 'What, Hans! _my_ Hans!' exclaimed
the choleric old Dutchman; 'where is the dirty dog? Let me at him!'
And brandishing his club, he made his way through the retreating
crowd, when reaching his recreant son, he belabored him lustily over
the shoulders, and pointing significantly toward home, bade him be
gone. Crouching and howling with pain, the lusty Hans obeyed; and
it may be added in parenthesis, that hearing a vague rumor during
the day that he was in request by the worshipful corporation of the